Weapons
by Ashrial
Summary: Oneshot. A weapon is the soul of a warrior. It is an extension of his will, of his self. By which weapon he wields a warrior bares his soul to the world.


Summary: Oneshot. A weapon is the soul of a warrior. It is an extension of his will, of his self. By which weapon he wields a warrior bares his soul to the world.

Disclaimer: I don't own Final fantasy VII.

--

It's large and unwieldy, the sword he wields. He doesn't remember choosing it, only remember its weight as he takes it up in his hands and says goodbye to his last friend. The memory is fuzzy, indistinct, and he can't even remember which friend it was. If he tries hard enough sometimes he can almost see his face, but the one that comes to the surfaces is his own and that can't make sense.

Even with his SOLDIER enhanced strength the sword is heavy and while he knows he is using it correctly in the technical sense, his movements in combat are stilted and disjointed, no instinct guiding them. There is no certainty to his movements, only the flailing of a puppet whose stringers are tangled trying to follow the forms of a master swordsman.

He didn't choose to wield it, the sword he now carries. Didn't choose to carry its weight; but like his memories, his past, it's now his burden to bear

_Sword_

--

His anger is his greatest weapon, greater than any weapon that could be made with human hands. His hate fuels him, it gave him the strength to hold on to life as he crawled through the mountains, the ragged stump of his arm cradled against his chest. It gave him the strength to face Shinra again, gave him the strength to turn himself into the weapon he'd need to defeat Shinra.

He can still remember the moment as he'd starred down at the stump of his arm, the doctor's voice echoing in his head, telling him that the operation wasn't reversible, that once he took this step there would be no going back. He'd paused then; did he really want to go through this? Did he really want to turn a part of himself into a weapon? An instrument for nothing but death? He'd almost stopped then. Almost. Then the faces of his friends had risen up, all those Shinra had murdered. His face hardening he had turned to the doctor and nodded.

_Do it._

He'd never looked back.

_Gun-arm_

--

She always feels it; no matter how many times she may throw it, the moment of anxiety as it teeters at the end of its arc, teeters between returning to her and falling away. Most shuriken once they were thrown were lost until after the battle was finished and time could be taken to wrench and wriggle them out of the bodies of the fallen. Not hers. Hers was one of the oversized returning shuriken whose construction was a closely held secret of Wutain weapon smiths.

It had belonged to her mother before her; she can still remember it gleaming in her mothers' hands, the polished metal only dulled by the blood and dirt ground into the crevasses of its blade. Few memories of her mother are left to her. Time had a way of stealing them from her. She could have laughed. The master thief a victim of a far stronger power. Even the memory of her mother's face is almost completely lost, only the vague image of her mother's long dark hair falling from its elegant bun to curtain her face left.

The last time she'd seen her mother, her hair had been tucked neatly back into her bun, leaving the sharp beauty of her face fall in full relief. The weapon that would one day be hers was slung across her back in a sling, and it had bounced slightly when she'd knelt down next to her. Her mother's long fingered and elegant hands had smoothed back the hair from her forehead and said with a faint smile on her lips that she'd be back soon and not to worry.

Even at the age of seven she hadn't been stupid, had known that her mother was heading into battle, and that in battle people died. But her mother had promised to return, and no matter how much she had wanted to wrap her arms around her and never let go she had simply nodded and tried to smile, because she was a child of Wutai and that was really the only appropriate response.

That is a memory that will never be dulled with time, and no matter how many times it thunks into her palm after a successful throw she is always afraid that it will not return the next time.

_Shuriken_

--

It's not a weapon designed for cutting. It's good for blocking, as a conduit for the power of the planet, and maybe for a bruise of two. Nothing more.

Growing up in the slums she'd seen what a simple blade could do to a person, seen the life draining out of them to collect on the ground, and she'd vowed to never do that to someone, never in the space of a heartbeat take everything they ever had been and everything they ever could be away from them.

No matter what it cost her, she would never reduce herself to that.

_Staff_

--

Cool oiled steel, the sharp scent of gunpowder, and just below that the faintest taste of the blood that never touches them. Guns are less intimate than the assortment of bladed weapons that the rest of his allies wield. Guns require distance and time to be affective, and that keeps him apart from his allies in battle, keeps an eternal distance between him and them. Guns require a cool head that bladed weapons do not, anger will not make your shot any stronger with a gun, all anger or any other emotion will do with a gun is make your hand tremble.

And for him, anger calls his demons to come out and play, with claws and fangs and blood running red on the ground.

Keeping a distance from both his allies and enemies can only be a good thing. For all parties involved.

_Gun_

--

She is too polite to laugh, but some of her amusement must show on her face because one of his eyebrows quirks up. _You don't believe me?_

She shakes her head quickly, not wanting to offend him. _It's not that. It's just_… she shrugs and gestures at herself, taking in her curvaceous figure. _Really?_

_Let me tell you something_. His voice is a low baritone; deep and rumbling. _I've traveled this world for thirty years, I've trained more students than you have fingers, and if I say that you could become the best of them you had best believe it._

She nods, slowly, and is surprised to find that she does.

_The real question_, he says looking her straight in the eye, _is whether you have what it takes up here_. He taps the side of his head with a finger.

She pauses for too long, caught between the many thoughts swirling in her head, and he stands up, towering high above her.

_I do_, she blurts out too late, his footsteps already carrying him towards the door. He only shakes his head. _I thought at first you might_, he says, _perhaps I was mistaken_.

He brushes by her on the way out, but her hand closes around his arm, and he pauses. He looks down at her with a face that could have been carved from granite, and she knows from the feel of the muscles in his arm that if he wanted to he could snap her like a twig. Her voice is even, and doesn't carry the slightest tremor._ I do_.

_Fists_

--

They are not his first weapons –that title belongs to his claws and fangs– but they are by far his most important ones. They are connection to his race, the only one he has left. They have passed from generation to generation back all the way to when his people first found the canyon and swore to defend it against any who would harm it.

With them tucked into his hair he can feel the strength of his ancestors flow through him, countless warriors who have gone before him who fought and died in defense of the planet and the canyon they called home. Only one has tainted that proud line. He can still feel the twist in his gut at the thought of him, of his father, who betrayed their race. The traitor. The coward.

So he stands tall and bares his teeth against those that would destroy the planet, because while the strength of his ancestors flows through him, so too does their responsibility and he'll be damned before he betrays that trust.

_Comb_

--


End file.
